


his heart was made to be broken (but his broken heart is still beating)

by Resacon1990



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beyond the Wall - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Five Stages of Grief, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jon is a little broken and bruised, Jon is healing, M/M, Post-Canon, SO MUCH Bed Sharing, Sansa is a good sister, Sharing a Bed, Soft Boys, but he will be okay, lots of Free Folk/Wildlings, plus Happiness, tormund is the best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-04-08 05:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19100569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resacon1990/pseuds/Resacon1990
Summary: “And me,” Tormund says, catching Jon’s eyes and holding them with his own. “I lost everyone and everything I ever had, and yet I’ve found you and a new home at Antler River.I’m happy. Was it worth it for me?”“Was it?” Jon asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Tormund reaches up with a hand and cups Jon’s cheek, his thumb tracing over the ridge of Jon’s cheekbone.“I think so,” Tormund tells him.





	his heart was made to be broken (but his broken heart is still beating)

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, I'm not sure what this is.
> 
> It started off as my excuse to do a five plus one with Jon and Tormund bed-sharing, which then turned into a fic of Jon going through the five stages of grief, then I needed to end it on a happy note, and now I'm not entirely sure.
> 
> There's bed sharing though. All the time. So bring it on.
> 
> Also, I used a mixture of different maps considering this mostly takes place Beyond-the-Wall, so have a few maps to look at!  
> [Beyond-the-Wall](https://atlasoficeandfireblog.files.wordpress.com/2017/01/westeros-the-lands-beyond-the-wall.png)  
> [Also Beyond-the-Wall](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/images/6/6c/Westeros_-_Byound_the_wall.jpg)  
> [Winterfell](http://is2.4chan.org/tv/1557860804620.png)
> 
>  _And_ , just in case it confuses anyone, I've used the book versions of the Free Folk. The Thenn being cannibals in the series really annoyed me considering how they're the smartest and most advanced of the Free Folk, so I've made sure to mention that it was actually the Ice-River Clans that were the cannibals. Just in case that confused anyone.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this disaster, everyone!

In all honesty, Jon didn’t think he would still be alive, let alone back at the Wall again.

The moment he’d walked into the broken throne room back at Kings Landing, he’d accepted his death. It’s not that he wanted to die, no, he’s not got suicidal ideation. It’s just… well, he hasn’t really quite wanted to _live_ for a long time either.

He’s been only wanting to survive for a long time. Survive to help his family take back Winterfell from the Bolton’s, survive to protect his family from the impending attacks from the White Walkers and the Night King, survive to save his family from being killed by a lost Daenerys Targaryen.

He’d thought for a moment there how Sam had said once that history is always doomed to repeat itself. Maybe it would’ve done so. Daenerys taking the place of her father, Arya and Sansa the place of their uncle and grandfather. Maybe they too would’ve been burnt alive in the throne room of Kings Landing. Maybe history would’ve repeated itself.

Maybe Jon has repeated history himself. Taking the place of Jamie Lannister, finding out their monarch was mad with misguided power, killing them to save what’s left of this broken world.

Jon doesn’t know. He’s never known. Ygirtte was right. _You know nothing, Jon Snow_.

He’s survived, but only because he’s had to survive. He’d accepted that he would die the moment Daenerys drew her last breath and the moment Grey Worm appeared in the throne room to see a melted chair, a puddle of blood, and Jon’s head in his hands.

Tyrion had asked him why he’d confessed so easily. He could’ve gotten away with it, Tyrion had said. It’s not like Daenerys has never disappeared on her dragon for a long time before. Her followers from Essos use to it by now. No one would have known it was him. He was in love with her. Why would he kill her?

Jon couldn’t answer him then and he still can’t answer him now. Was it honour? Loyalty? Justice? Misguided justice? The answer isn’t clear and Jon thinks it never will be. He killed Daenerys Targaryen because he had to do so. 

After all, duty is the death of love.

But it leaves him here. Back at Castle Black. It’s different now. There are only a few night’s watchmen left, most having perished in the sieges by the Night King before the battle came to Winterfell. It’s mostly made up of Free Folk, but they won’t stay. Even as Jon had entered through the gates he could see them packing their things, readying themselves for a long march.

Cotter Pyke is the new Lord Commander. He’d been with Edd’s group that’d somehow survived the fall of Eastwatch. Despite his years of being the leader at Eastwatch, he wears the black coat with an unease. Jon thinks it’s more from the things he’s seen rather than the weight of his new title though. Besides him though, Jon doesn’t spot any familiar faces. There’s no one at Eastwatch or Shadow Castle now, having all travelled here. For the defenders of the Wall, there’s not much left.

Tormund is here though. It’d taken them seconds to lock eyes as the gates had opened. Jon had felt his eyes burn as he’d seen the look on Tormund’s face, a gentle acceptance. He obviously knows what Jon has done, feels the sympathy that Jon refuses to acknowledge from anyone, but he's not said a word as he’d simply helped Jon from his horse and lead it to the stables.

It meant that Jon was alone for most of the afternoon. It was okay though. Some of the Night’s watchmen had introduced themselves, Free Folk that Jon recognised reacquainted themselves with him, and, before the evening meal, Jon was accosted by Cotter.

He was offered the title back, Lord Commander Jon Snow. Jon had refused before the words were even out of Cotter’s mouth. No. He can’t do that again. He’d been killed for this position. It’d tarnished that great black coat forever for him.

Cotter had understood. Jon thinks he knows what Jon really means when he offers to chaperone the Free Folk back behind the wall. There’s a warmness to Cotter’s eyes as he’d pat Jon on the back and nodded his head. There’s no resistance, something that Jon is used to, and for a long moment, he doesn’t know how to accept Cotter’s agreement.

After that meeting, Jon had headed straight for the barrack rooms. Cotter had offered the old Lord Commander’s chambers but Jon refused them. They’re Cotter’s rooms now. Jon doesn’t deserve them, no matter what he’s done. Instead, the barrack rooms offer plenty of solace as Jon bunks down on a free cot as far away from the rest as possible. He’ll be asleep before the others finish their meal, and hopefully, he can sleep through till the next day at the least.

He really just wants to sleep forever.

He’s just about drifted off though when he hears the door open. No one should be back from dinner yet, it’s too early. In fact, Jon can vaguely hear the noise coming from the dining hall from over the courtyard. He’s not sure who it can be, but the moment he hears the light sounds of feet pattering against the floor he can’t help but smile as he realises who’s coming.

He sits up just in time for Ghost to plough straight into him, the force of the collision almost sending Jon straight onto his back again. He wraps his arms around Ghost’s neck though to hold himself steady, and he pushes his face into the familiar damp, smoky fur and breathes in everything about Ghost that he’s desperately missed.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he mutters, getting a mouthful of fur as he does so and not caring one bit. “I’m sorry for leaving you behind. I shouldn’t have let you go.” 

“Aye, you shouldn’t have.”

Jon would recognise Tormund’s voice anywhere, and he steals another moment to tighten his arms around Ghost and murmur how sorry he still is before he pulls back to see Tormund watching him with his arms crossed and a steely look on his face. He’s not unhappy to see Jon, especially not since he’s the one that wanted Jon to come North with them, but he doesn’t look overly pleased either.

There’s a hesitant moment where they stare at each other before Tormund lets out a loud huff, uncrosses his arms, and reaches over to smack one of Jon’s knees.

“Bunch up,” he says gruffly, and Jon pulls his knees to his chest as Tormund settles at the end of the cot. Ghost shuffles along as well, lying down beside the bed but keeping his head on Jon’s lap. Jon had really forgotten about how big dire wolves are, and he thinks that if Ned Stark ever heard _that_ then Jon would’ve gotten more than just a clip around the ears.

How could he forget something so pivotal to the North? So _personal_ to their _House_?

“Took your sweet time coming back,” Tormund starts to say, his voice a bit cantankerous. Jon drops his gaze from Tormund’s face to look down at Ghost’s head. “Your sister sent us a raven saying she was marching south with the Winterfell army to liberate you.” He snorts. “Didn’t think there was much to liberate. They should be thankful you finished off the dragon queen when no one else would.”

“It’s not that clear cut, Tormund,” Jon murmurs, his voice painfully quiet. He doesn’t think he’s felt this defeated in such a long time, if ever. “I committed regicide. I killed the queen.”

“Then we call you queenslayer and move on,” Tormund says, and _that_ makes Jon’s chest _burn_. “It’ll go with your title of kingslayer, for Mance Rayder.” Jon jumps when Tormund’s hand comes down onto his knee, and he looks up to see Tormund smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “In my experience, kings and queens do not last long. I would not place much faith in them.”

Jon pauses for a moment. He thinks of Robert Baratheon, Renly Baratheon, Stannis Baratheon, Joffrey Baratheon, Margaery Tyrell, Tommen Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, Mance Rayder, Daenerys Targaryen. 

He thinks of Robb, he thinks of _himself_. All within seven years. Eleven kings and queens, and only one is still alive and here he is, back at the Wall, nameless and titleless. 

Maybe Tormund has a point.

“Considering my brother and sister are both royalty now,” Jon says finally, “let’s hope you’re not completely right.”

Tormund quirks his head to the side before he squeezes Jon’s knee reassuringly. “They have your blood, Snow, _north_ blood,” he says with conviction. “And the war is over.” He reaches up and slides a finger under Jon’s chin to lift Jon’s eyes to meet his. “The only danger to them is the nature of humans, and humans are easy to deal with in comparison to the undead.”

Jon hopes he’s right. There’s still a heaviness to his heart though, each word adding more to drag it down, and he drops his eyes as reaches up to his chin to wrap his hand around Tormund’s. He lowers them both to his lap, holding tightly enough that he thinks he might break them both, but Tormund doesn’t pull away at all.

“I’ve told Cotter that I’m to escort you back beyond the wall,” Jon eventually says. He keeps his eyes downcast, memorising the scars and cuts littering the back of Tormund’s hands. There are some fresh ones, now scabs, and Jon wonders how he got them. “He’s agreed to let me go. We leave when you’re ready.”

Tormund doesn’t answer. His hand remains still in Jon’s grasp as silence falls between them. Jon can hear their breathing, all three of them, the only sound in the empty room but he doesn’t mind. Strangely enough, hearing the definite sound that they’re _alive_ is the most reassuring thing that Jon has heard since the damn moment he first bumped into the embodiment of death beyond the wall.

The moments tick by and Jon can feel Tormund’s gaze on him. He doesn’t look up. He can’t look up. Looking at Tormund now with that damn kind face and those attempts to be reassuring might just put cracks in his wall that Jon has personally built up to keep him safe, if not destroy it altogether. It’s his last grip on sanity, of staying in one piece. He can’t forfeit that.

Finally, though, Tormund breaks the heavy silence. “You will be happy in the true North, Jon,” he says, squeezing Jon’s hand just the once. The words curl into Jon’s chest, sharp and pointed, and he winces as he lets go of Tormund’s hand and pulls it back under the rough wool blankets.

“I’m not too sure I know what happiness is,” he confesses. He glances just briefly up at Tormund and is stunned to see how devastated he looks, but Tormund masks his face quickly when he realises that Jon is looking.

It seems more that he doesn’t know what to say as they look at each other, Jon broken and hopeless and Tormund uncertain and helpless. Jon knows he’s a mess and he knows that Tormund will try, but he doesn’t even know if he wants the help anymore.

He’s accepted his death long ago. He never anticipated what would happen if he didn’t.

Eventually, Tormund sighs, and Jon thinks he’s about to get up and leave when he surprises Jon by starting to shrug off his heavy layers of coats and jackets. Jon doesn’t say a word as he watches with a bit of awkwardness and a certain weird feeling in his stomach as Tormund stands, toes off his boots and walks around the other side of the cot to Ghost.

Jon stares at him blankly for a moment before Tormund huffs and leans down to start shoving Jon over until he’s lying back down again. “There’s barely enough beds for everyone here,” he says as he pushes Jon into Ghost and Jon yelps as Ghost lets out a dark growl of displeasure at being moved. “So some of us have to share with one another.”

“Shouldn’t you have your own being their leader?” Jon demands as Tormund slides in behind him and jabs Jon in the back of one of his calves with his knee.

“Leaders lead by example,” Tormund points out haughtily as he accidentally places his palm directly on Jon’s hair and yanks his head back. Jon lets out a grunt and reaches back to punch Tormund in the vague direction of his stomach and is rewarded with Tormund’s groan. 

“You’re the worst example there is,” Jon snaps, and Tormund huffs a laugh in his ear before he catches Jon’s hip and forces him to lie still for a moment as he pulls and yanks around the scratchy wool blankets.

“ _And_ ,” he says with heavy emphasis, and Jon glances over his shoulder to see Tormund giving him an incredibly serious look. “ _You_ don’t need to be sleeping alone anyway.”

Jon pauses for a moment, seeing the determination in Tormund’s eyes and for a moment he’s touched. Genuinely touched. He’s never really been high on anyone’s priority lists for seeing if he’s okay, but Tormund seems like he’s absolutely intent on making sure Jon is perfectly okay, no matter how much he bumps and bruises him in the process. 

“I’m fine,” Jon protests a little halfheartedly as he breaks eye contact to wriggle around until he’s facing the grouchy Ghost. This bed clearly isn’t big enough for two, but Tormund seems determined to make it work as he moves and fits himself right up against Jon, his knees curling up into the backs of Jon’s knees. One hand comes over Jon’s waist and drops on top of Ghost’s head while the other slips underneath their shared pillow.

“You are not fine,” Tormund grumbles, his chest humming against Jon’s back, “but you will be.”

Jon doesn’t believe him, not one damn bit.

 

…

 

Jon’s almost sure that Cotter knows he doesn’t have any intentions on coming back.

He claps Jon on the shoulder as the rest of the Free Folk gather the last of their gears for the trip up North and tells him to take his time coming back. There’s no real order in his voice, not that Jon would really care, but his smile is all-knowing. He gives Ghost a scratch behind the ears and clasps Tormund’s wrist tightly before he gives out the order to raise the gate. Jon gives him one last nod before he mounts his horse and steers her towards the gates.

He’s forgotten how long the tunnel through the wall is as he follows Ghost. It’s dim and dank, and Jon sees dark stains in the ice as his horse’s hooves crack the top layer. Grenn died in here, he knows that, remembers his sightless eyes. The gate on the other side is still warped from when the giant had burst through.

Too many memories, he thinks as he breaks out from the tunnel to the open plain. Tormund is right behind him, a reassuring presence, and Jon continues to follow Ghost as he leads them towards the forest line just ahead. The Free Folk flow out behind them and Jon pauses just once to glance back at the Wall.

He’s spent a lifetime and more on it. He’s given everything he has to protect it. He’s given his _life_ to keep it safe. He thinks it’s had enough from him and, as the gate slowly closes behind them, he turns back around with a sort of finality.

It’s time to leave the Wall behind, and he sees Tormund watching him from the treeline with an unreadable expression that slips away as Jon gently nudges his horse forward again.

The Free Folk travel faster than the Night’s Watch. Jon’s known this for a while now, but it really settles in as they pass the first three abandoned villages and make it to Whitetree within a day. It’s a long day, easily twelve hours straight of travel, but it’d taken the Night’s Watch longer than that. Two days with a night out under the stars with them all huddled together to keep warm in between. But the Free Folk are wanderers by blood, use to the travel. Even the Free Folk children are able to keep up with the rest with their wanderer's blood.

The four halls are still standing below the huge heart tree at Whitetree. It still unnerves Jon when he looks at it, still the largest weirwood he’s ever seen at nearly eight feet wide and with branches big enough to shade the entire village. A dismal place, but one that is agreed unanimously to be their camp tonight.

Most of the Free Folk will be able to fit inside the four halls with only a few to spare, and Jon hurries to assist those that have opted to camp in their tents. He helps pitch them in a circle and follows along to collect firewood for the middle of the circle as well as the two fireplaces in each hall.

He watches as Tormund amasses the children, who’re also determined to help, and leads them into the surrounding forest area. They come back later, singing and with their arms piled with kindling as they march behind Tormund, and Jon nearly smiles at the sight of Tormund singing the loudest.

Sansa had said that Winterfell’s halls were not big enough to contain Tormund’s voice. Jon sees what she means.

By the time they’ve got all the fires roaring, its time for dinner. They all crowd into the hall designed to eat in, the group not fond of leaving each other’s sights for too long, and Jon finds himself squashed in at a table with a mother and her four children. She looks exhausted as she tries to juggle all of their needs, all of them under the age of ten, and Jon’s heart goes out to her. He thinks he recognises her from when they were piling the bodies after the battle onto the pyres. She was crying over her husband, bloodied and broken herself, and when she looks up at him now, he ducks his gaze.

Thankfully, Ghost appears in the hall, weaving his way through the people to sit at Jon’s side. His muzzle is slightly red, a sign he’s been hunting, but the children that Jon is sitting with don’t mind as they gush over him. They pick small morsels off their plates to feed Ghost, who takes each piece carefully between his sharp teeth, and when they run out, Jon takes one glance at their mother before he slides what’s left of his dinner to them to continue feeding Ghost.

It’s his attempt to help, to distract them for that moment more, and she must know as she gives him the barest of smiles.

It leaves him feeling uncomfortable though, the acknowledgement feeling wrong as it sits on his shoulders. He doesn’t know why but he doesn’t care to try and understand his feelings anymore. He sweeps them under a rug of numbness and hopes that he never cracks and shows what sitting underneath.

He gathers their plates to take to the front of the hall where a young man takes them from him with shaky hands. He’s got haunted eyes, eyes that don’t focus on Jon as he says a bland thank you. Jon’s chest hurts at the sight and he quickly hurries away, back outside towards the tents with Ghost jogging to keep up.

He doesn’t know where he’s sleeping. He hadn’t really spoken to anyone about the sleeping arrangements that seem natural to them all. It helps that this is their norm, that this is how they live, and he stands awkwardly at the edge of the tents and wonders if it would be alright to bother someone for a blanket to at least cover himself with when he curls up with Ghost beside the fire.

His thoughts are interrupted though as he hears footsteps crunching over the ground behind him. His shoulders hunch, his breath quickens, and his fingers itch for the sword still at his hip in response to the feeling of someone looming up behind him, but he knows it’s Tormund the moment his hand lands on Jon’s shoulder and nearly sends his knees buckling.

“Come on,” Tormund says briskly as he walks past with a hard pull at Jon’s arm. “You’ll freeze your balls off if you stand there any longer.”

Loyally, Jon trails after him. They weave between the tents where most are already settling down together, and he hesitates for only a moment as Tormund holds up the flap of a vacant one before Ghost nearly bowls him over to get inside himself.

Even then, he only stumbles inside because Tormund’s lack of personal space has him running right up Jon’s rear and nudging him in. The tent is tall enough for Jon to stand straight up in but, considering he has a couple of inches on Jon, Tormund stoops his neck as he shuffles past Jon and avoids stepping on Ghost, who’s just flopped down in the middle of the carefully laid out furs on the ground.

Jon’s hesitant to do anything, uncomfortable and out of his depth right now, and he awkwardly stands still as Tormund unbuckles his belt, shrugs off his large overcoat, and places his dragon glass axe on top of the small pile to the side of his clothing. He glances back over his shoulder at Jon as he’s tugging off his gloves, and he lets out a long-suffering sigh before he stomps over.

Without a word, he reaches up and unclips Jon’s coat from around his shoulders, respectfully folding it up before placing it beside his own pile. Jon drops his gaze as Tormund turns back to him, but he reaches down to unbuckle his sword and belt for Tormund to also take away. He’s a bit surprised though when Tormund places Longclaw up by where their heads will be, the hilt at Jon’s end, perfectly within reach in case anything happens.

Ghost lets out an inaudible huff as Tormund crashes down on one side of him. It leaves the other side open for Jon, and he stares at it for a long moment. If he lies there, he’ll have Ghost at one side and the side of the tent on the other. He _can_ lie with his back pressed to Ghost and maybe if he brings Longclaw down to keep in front of him, it should be fine. Maybe?

“Move _over_ , you hunk of shit,” Tormund suddenly says, and Jon’s eyes snap away from the tent wall to see Tormund pushing at Ghost’s belly with his foot. Ghost bares his teeth back at Tormund but, after a tense moment, does as Tormund says. He rolls over to face the other way, scrunching up closer to the wall of the tent, and it leaves a space between the two that’s just big enough for Jon.

He doesn’t need to be told by Tormund to hurry up, he can already see it in the raised eyebrows on Tormund’s face, and he quickly shucks off his leather tunic to drop at his feet before he kneels and crawls into the empty space provided. It’s warm, Ghost gives off enough heat to fill the tent by himself and Tormund is a close second, and Jon takes a moment to revel in it before he rolls off his back to face Tormund.

“Settled yet?” Tormund asks, his eyebrows still raised, and Jon gives him an awkward half-smile as he wriggles into the fur. It’s comfortable. Not like a bed is, but much better than lying on the cold dirt as he’d intended.

“Thank you,” he says softly as he drops his gaze. Ghost is pressed against his back, a welcome weight, and he reaches back with one hand to bury it into Ghost’s long fur. “I was happy with lying-”

“If you say by the fire then I will hold that pretty head of yours down and shave off those pretty fucking curls,” Tormund interrupts briskly, and Jon’s mouth shuts with an almost audible click. He looks back up to see Tormund smiling at him, and he doesn’t flinch away when Tormund reaches out to grip his shoulder. “You’re one of us, Jon. You’ll always have a place with me.”

Jon doesn’t quite know what to say back. Another thank you will probably fall on deaf ears since Tormund has never been the type for pleasantries. He’s a man of action, and he doesn’t believe in cute but stale words. 

“I heard some of the others mention they might stay here,” Jon instead settles for saying. 

Tormund nods. “It’s a long way for them to travel back to their old homes,” he points out. “They only moved that way in the first place because of Mance Rayder. It won’t shock me if we leave with less tomorrow.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“It’s their lives to live,” Tormund says with a shrug. “I’m not King-Beyond-the-Wall. I don’t have a say in how they need to live and breathe. If some can find happiness here then so be it.”

Despite the positivity, Jon thinks he can see a bit of sadness in Tormund’s eyes. He’s not surprised. These are the folk that he’s, fought with, protected, and _lived_ with for well over five years now. This is his family, no matter how big or small. Losing some of them along the way was always going to happen, but Jon didn’t think it would happen so soon.

He tries to think of something to say to change the topic. “Did you see the greenery?” he ends up asking. “There was a flower that one of the young girls picked. I don’t think she’s ever seen one before, or if she has it wasn’t up this way.”

Tormund smiles. “Aye,” he agrees. “The last time there were flowers in the North was when I was a boy at Ruddy Hall.” His smile turns downwards and his eyes grow serious. “Back when the White Walkers were just a story they told us to scare us into behaving.”

They’re gone, and Jon knows that. But even the thought of the White Walkers and the Night King make the hairs on his arms and neck stand up. He lets go of Ghost’s fur to rub at the back of his neck, and he glances up to see Tormund watching him do so. 

“They are gone, Jon,” Tormund says quietly. Jon feels himself go stiff, his hand gripping the hair at the nape of his neck tightly as Tormund reaches back out to grip his shoulder again. “The White Walkers are dead and they’re not coming back. It’s time to start accepting that.”

“I can’t,” Jon admits, his voice so low as he closes his eyes. He can see flashes behind them, the Night King’s eyes as they bore into him at Hardhome, at Winterfell. It makes his breath quicken and his skin crawl. “I know they’re gone but I just…”

He trails off, his words broken and painful, and he doesn’t resist when Tormund’s hand moves to his head and tugs him down to fit Jon against his chest. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut as he reaches forward with trembling fingers to grip onto the fur covering Tormund’s chest and he tries to breathe in staggered gasps.

“It won’t be easy, little crow,” Tormund muses above him, his chest rumbling against Jon’s forehead. “But you will get there. I will help you. I won’t leave you.”

It’s a promise that Jon knows that Tormund will keep, ever a man of his word and it should make him feel better, feel calmer, but it _doesn’t_. He tries to focus on Tormund’s hand at the back of his head, his thumb moving in a reassuring pattern over Jon’s hair, but it’s hard to focus on anything but the surprising panic building in his throat.

“And if I don’t?” he asks, muffled by Tormund’s chest. “If I don’t get there, then what?”

It’s worst-case scenario, but Jon has had enough of those that by now it’s just the norm. He hears Tormund sigh and his thumb stops rubbing its gentle movements.

“My mother use to say ‘we will cross that bridge when we get to it’,” Tormund muses. “And we will. Even if it means leaving here to go back South or crossing the Shivering Sea to find you peace. I have faith in you, Jon Snow, and you _deserve_ peace.”

“You’d do that for me?” Jon asks hesitantly, and he feels Tormund drop his head as he pulls Jon back just the slightest to press their foreheads together.

“Yes,” he says simply. “I would.”

Jon doesn’t know how to respond, but luckily Tormund doesn’t seem to need any response as he pushes their foreheads almost painfully against one another before he lets go and curls Jon back into him. Jon goes willingly, accepting the safety and warmth that Tormund can provide, and he reaches a hand back to sink into Ghost’s fur again.

It’s not much, he thinks, but it’s a start.

 

…

 

They were right when the next day, a small group of Free Folk announce their plans to stay at Whitetree.

Jon isn’t surprised. It’s mainly those with infants and tots that are choosing to stay. In hindsight, they were never going to make it past the Fist of the First Men with the younger babes and children following them. Sure, they can keep up well enough, but their endurance will never be as long as the adults.

Tormund bids farewell to them all. No matter what he says, he is their leader as the group staying behind asks his permission which he freely gives. They’re Free Folk, he says, and that’s the point. Free Folk are _free_. 

There’s also another small group that pipes up and bids their farewell. From Whitetree, they’ll travel back to Storrold’s Point, back to Hardhome. It makes sense. Despite the place being mostly in ruins when they left, it’s a decent place to settle. Enough forest for hunting and plenty of sea for fishing. It’s the youths that want to make that trip, the families and elders opting to stay with Tormund, but Tormund blesses the group as they gather their things and start to make their way east.

It leaves only half of their group left by the time everyone has decided whether to stay at Whitetree, move to Hardhome, or continue North with Tormund. They’re all decent sizes. Eight-hundred to stay, one-thousand to move towards Hardhome, and the last one-thousand five-hundred to keep moving. It’s good, Jon thinks. It’s enough to start to rebuild and begin again.

The trek up North is a bit slower as they get into the thicker parts of the Haunted Forest. They head west until they find the Milkwater river and slowly follow alongside it towards Craster’s Keep. Twice, they camp for the night when the sun gets too low. The forest is big enough to obscure the light well before it’s dark, but it’s agreed that they’d rather move slow than risk injury or death.

Both nights, Jon sleeps in Tormund’s tent, but on both nights he only sleeps with Ghost. Tormund disappears at night, managing the large group and discussing their plans with the other nominee leaders. Jon doesn’t mind too much, but he finds himself stirring at the slightest noise each night, and he wakes in the morning with sore hands from where he’s held the hilt of Longclaw with painfully tight fists.

It means that Tormund is shattered through the day though, and as there are groups of children taking turns on Tormund’s horse which makes it easier for the parents to move without hindrance, Jon opts to walk as he pushes Tormund up on top of his horse to sleep as they move towards Craster’s Keep. Jon knows it’s not comfortable, having slept on a horse multiple times himself, but Tormund’s eyes are blood-shot and weary each morning and Jon’s heart goes out to him.

There are many discussions on their walks about where to settle. The North is huge, filled with so many places to go. Jon doesn’t know much, but on their third day of heading to Craster’s Keep, he walks beside an elderly woman, Yrma, who says she’s from Lorn Point on the Frozen Shore.

“There’s not many of us left,” she muses to him as they walk along. Jon has her pack on his back and a hand pressed to Tormund’s thigh to ensure that he doesn’t topple from the horse as he snores away. “I do believe that we will all settle together, or only one more split if needed. There’s no use thinning our numbers more than they already have.”

Jon nods along. “Where would you go?” he asks her, and she glances up with old and tired eyes.

“There are still Hornfoot’s amongst us,” she says, waving a hand to the blackened-foot man walking in front of them. “We could settle in their lands at the foothills of the Frostfangs. There are the Nightrunner lands just north of the Hornfoots, but there are barely any left and their lands are not as fruitful.” She shrugs and she reaches out to grasp Jon’s arm as she nearly stumbles on some old roots. “We could cross the Frostfangs via Giant’s Stair or through Skirling Pass and settle in the Valley of Thenn.”

“We have enough Thenn left. That could be an option?”

Yrma sighs and squeezes his arm. “The Thenn are the most intelligent amongst us,” she points out, “but they are strict and unshared. The Valley of Thenn would be the best place to settle, but I don’t know if they would allow us if we don’t follow their rules of bowing to their Magnar.”

Jon purses his lips. He doesn’t think any Free Folk has any intention on bending the knee to anyone. “But past the Frostfangs?” he asks. “Where you’re from?”

Yrma smiles at him, her face slightly wistful. “The Frozen Shore,” she says softly. “Where the only problem we had was the raids from the cannibals from the Ice-River Clans. There’s none of them left either, so we could finally live a peaceful life.” She sighs again though, the wistfulness gone as she drops her gaze to the ground. “But Bear Island has been all but abandoned. Our trade will be less without them. I don’t know how long we’d survive.”

Jon nods along. It sounds despairing, really. There are not many choices left for anyone in Westeros now that the Long Night has come and whoever was left has been decimated in the final bid for the Iron Throne. It’s destroyed now, and Jon had felt _nothing_ watching it melt and burn, but it still hadn’t lessened the human _greed_ for it after Daenerys death.

Tormund had asked him before they’d left if Jon had wanted to assist with leading the Free Folk. When given a choice, something that Jon hadn’t been expecting, he’d felt _guilty_ when he’d said no. But Tormund hadn’t minded, just nodded and agreed that it would be the _best_ choice _for_ Jon, and hadn’t held him accountable to anything since.

Jon is tired of leading. He’s tired of position and power. Being at the back of the group and managing the rotation of children on their horses and keeping an eye out to make sure Tormund doesn’t fall off his horse as his _only_ responsibilities is both a foreign feeling and a welcome one. There are no decisions to make that influence everyone, there’s no-one angry or vengeful at him for the choices he does make, and there’s _nothing_ that sits on his shoulders beside the past.

It’s refreshing and terrifying all at once.

By the time they reach Craster’s Keep, the sun is starting to descend. Tormund had woken shortly after Jon’s conversation with Yrma had finished, and he’d quickly made his way to the front of the group to lead them forward. It’d left Jon creating another cycle of children resting on his horse, and he’d been content in doing so until they reached the ruins of the Keep.

Jon had burnt it to the ground years ago, but there are still smaller cabins to take refuge in and the main hall has enough structure left over that, by the time Jon and the others at the back get there, there is a group of Free Folk working to create a large cover to fit over the ruins. It should fit the majority of them in there, as long as they don’t mind cramped quarters, but Jon hasn’t seen anyone object to having bunkmates this whole time.

Although, now that there’s less of them, there’s less work for Jon to do. He sets about grooming and caring for the horse as food is hunted and firewood is gathered, and he’s joined by the younger children after they’ve collected the kindling. At one point, Tormund pauses at his side to grip Jon’s arm in a reassuring hold before he disappears to assist with putting up the still-needed individual tents, and it gives Jon that extra bit of boost to finish caring for the horses without running out of patience for the loud children. 

He struggles now with how easily the screeches and squawks of children ruffle him. He thinks he knows why, the memories of the screams of the trapped undead in the bottom of their ship still make his skin crawl, but it doesn’t help when every time a child gets _excited_ , Jon’s fingers fly to the hilt of Longclaw. 

Dinner is stew again. Jon’s used to it. Stew for dinner, stew for lunch, and sometimes stew for breakfast. A hot meal is the greatest commodity this side of the wall, and the Free Folk will take every chance they get to have one. Luckily, hunting is good this way and it’s not often the same meat each time.

He avoids the families though when he sits down. After the first night with the mother and her children, he tries to steer clear. He finds that he gets overwhelmed easy by the noises and the activity around him, so he sticks to the outskirts of the group and tries to find places to recluse in.

Tormund finds him more often than not to sit together, despite how busy he can be. Tonight they sit at a table full of surviving warriors from the Battle of Ice and Fire, as Sam dubbed it before Jon left for the capitol. Jon recognises the haunted looks, the hunched shoulders, the twitchy fingers, the flinches as children scream and the clenched jaws as the roar of conversation grows. 

He recognises it because that’s _him_. 

Tonight, he escapes to the second level of the Keep, the shelf that use to run right around the top of the building where Craster’s daughter-wives use to live. There’s not much of it left, all but a small section at the back of the building burnt away, but there’s enough for Jon to crawl up onto that hides him from the rest of the Free Folk beneath him. They’re all as far forward as they can, clamouring around the fire in literal piles, but Jon chooses to stay away with only his coat for warmth.

It’s fine though. It’s safe, and he watches from his perch as everyone starts to settle down. Like at Whitetree, all the young and elderly take precedence over who is inside, and Jon thinks that Tormund is probably outside in his tent wondering where Jon has got to. 

He should probably go find him, but it’s _safe_ up here with the leftover wall at his back and the visibility of everywhere else. Jon hasn’t felt this almost-relaxed since… well, a long time really. 

“There you are.”

He probably spoke too soon as he leans forward to see Tormund standing underneath the shelf with his hands on his hips. His eyebrows are raised and face expectant, and Jon tries to give him a smile.

It clearly doesn’t work as Tormund nearly winces at the mangled look Jon gives him. 

Jon doesn’t say a word as Tormund grabs onto one of the protruding posts, that use to hold up the shelf beside Jon, and hauls himself up to join Jon on the ledge. There’s not much room for them both, and Jon grabs Tormund’s arms and pulls him down to wedge in beside him.

It takes a bit of finesse, but eventually, they settle with Jon’s back angled half against Tormund’s chest and their legs pressed up against each other to fit in the small space. It’s almost uncomfortable, but Jon doesn’t want to leave this spot and it seems like Tormund has no intentions on moving either as his arm drops behind Jon and his hand curves around Jon’s waist. 

It’s a weighty silence for a moment, both just watching the last of the Free Folk hush each other to sleep before Tormund huffs against Jon’s hair. “What’s on your mind, little crow?” he asks quietly.

There’s a lot, Jon thinks. There’s too much on his mind and yet nothing at all. He knows what Tormund is doing though and Jon doesn’t want to disappoint him.

That’s what’s gotten him into lots of trouble before. Not wanting to disappoint people.

“I burnt this Keep to the ground,” Jon eventually says, his words quieter than Tormund’s. “After the mutiny that killed Jeor Mormont, Alliser Thorne-”

“The mutt you executed,” Tormund mutters darkly, and Jon nods but doesn’t stop.

“-agreed to let me lead a group here to kill the mutineers.” He huffs and shakes his head. “Should’ve known he was only doing it to kill me, and not out of the goodness of his heart.” He grips his hands tightly together, the leather of his gloves squeaking in protest. “After the attack, one of Craster’s wives asked me to burn it down. She said it was a reminder of the abuse she and her sisters suffered at the hands of Craster.” He looks around at the blackened wood everywhere. “I couldn’t refuse her.”

Tormund doesn’t say anything in response. His hand presses against Jon’s waist to let him know he’s been heard, but he doesn’t speak. Jon is thankful as he finds that he suddenly can’t stop.

“I missed Bran when he was here,” he continues, his hands starting to tremble. “The mutineers captured him and his group, and he told me that one of the bastards that came here to stop the mutiny was one of the Bolton men. He tried to kill Bran.” He hangs his head. “I didn’t even know. My little brother could’ve died in this damn shithole and I would’ve been none the wiser.”

“But he didn’t,” Tormund muses. “He didn’t die.”

“I should’ve known,” Jon snaps. “I should’ve known he was here and I should’ve helped him. Our father always told us to protect and help one another, and he could’ve _died_.” He bites down a bitter laugh as he shakes his head. “It makes sense that I’m a Targaryen and not a Stark. A Stark wouldn’t have _failed_ like I-”

“Stop,” Tormund suddenly commands, his voice quiet but stern. Jon immediately snaps his mouth shut, looking up in surprise to see Tormund’s eyes are an icy blue and full of seriousness. “Of all the things that you are, Jon Snow, a failure is not one of them.”

Jon snorts derisively as he looks away. “And yet here we are,” he says bitterly. “I joined the watch because I didn’t belong in Winterfell. I didn’t belong at Castle Black, but my _loyalty_ to them meant that I betrayed the only ones I ever did feel like I might have a chance of belonging too.” He looks at the Free Folk, wonders what would’ve happened if he hadn’t betrayed them, hadn’t betrayed _her_. “The woman I loved died in my arms because of my choices. Mance Rayder was burnt at the stake because of my choices. We lost so many at Hardhome because of my choices. I was _murdered_ because of my choices. Because of my _failures_.”

He tries to take a breath but he can’t, his throat tight and his eyes _burn_ as he sees the faces in front of him, of Olly and Alliser. For the Watch, they’d said. For the Watch. Each knife was for the damn _Watch_. 

“I killed men I loved and men I admired,” he manages to choke out, feeling like he’s drowning. “I hanged a _boy_. And when I thought it was over, it _wasn’t_.”

He can’t escape the memory of gasping for air, suffocating under soldiers as they’d screamed in terror, held in place by his _won damn men_ as they’d been picked off one by one by the Bolton’s. They hadn’t won the Battle of the Bastards because of Jon, because of his _decisions_. They’d won because of Sansa, Sansa and her cleverness.

Jon was _nothing_.

“I thought, with Winterfell retaken, maybe it would be over. Maybe we could focus on the Long Night,” he scoffs, frustrated with his own naivety. “But then Daenerys…” 

He trails off, her name too sharp on his tongue. If that isn’t a tragedy in itself. Her betrayed eyes, the blood running from the corners of her mouth and nose, Drogon’s roar as he’d stood over his mother and _melted_ the Iron Throne until it was nothing but smelt on the floor. It’s all so _fresh_ in his mind, etched there with a sharp knife and too gnarled to scar over.

“We survived the Long Night,” he continues, his voice barely a whisper, “but not because of me. Nothing I did mattered, and what I did do was _wrong_. I caused the sacking of Kings Landing. I should’ve seen, should’ve _listened_.” He shakes his head. His words are fragmented like his thoughts, overwhelmed by how many there are and each one jagged and hopeless. “Maybe if I’d seen it earlier, I could’ve helped her. Maybe I could’ve prevented all this bloodshed.” His laugh is muffled and bitter, not a shred of humour to be found. “But I killed her. Because I had to do so. Or maybe I didn’t, maybe there was another way.” He lets out a ragged breath. “I don’t know anymore. Ygritte was right. I know _nothing_.”

The silence is deafening. Tormund is quiet behind him and Jon can’t talk any longer past his clenched teeth, his jaw already starting to ache and his shoulders starting to cramp from the tensing of them. His eyes are burning with tears, not out of sadness but from _rage_ , white-hot and _burning_. His grip on his hands are so painfully tight that they’ve gone numb, but he can’t unclench them as his body wracks with _furious_ trembles. It’s _him_ , it’s _his fault_. He’s the damn problem. 

He’s failed. He’s failed and it’s cost so much, _too_ much. The anger he feels is strangling him, dragging him into a pit of self-loathing and self-hatred and he _can’t_ find his way out.

“It’s not your fault.”

Jon nearly laughs, nearly bursts out into a hysterical laugh as Tormund speaks. It’s typical, of course, it is. It's not your fault, Jon, none of this is your fault. Even though you were the one to _kill Daenerys_ , it’s not _your_ fault. He rolls his head back to raise his eyebrows

Tormund doesn’t stop though. His hand rises from Jon’s waist to cup his jaw and push his head up to meet Tormund’s eyes. They’re still just as serious as before, but they’re not as icy.

“It was never your responsibility to save the world from the Night King,” Tormund says, his voice level and controlled. “Yet you chose to try. It was never your responsibility to save the Free Folk, and yet you chose to try. The choices of Ygritte, Mance, the Dragon Queen, even your family were _not_ your responsibility.” He gives Jon’s head a slight shake. “Yes, you made mistakes. _Everyone_ makes mistakes, but that does not mean we condemn them and insist _they_ are the tragedy that befell us and caused this mess.”

He lets Jon go and waves a hand out to gesture at the slumbering Free Folk beneath them. “These people would not be alive if it weren’t for you. The crows would never have let us past the Wall if it weren’t for you. _You_ saved us, and you gave us the choice to fight.”

“We didn’t have a choice-” Jon starts to say, but he’s cut off as Tormund’s hand claps over his mouth.

“ _Not_ the Night King,” Tormund growls. “The fight for Winterfell was fought by us because we _chose_ to fight for you, fight for the man that saved us and would protect us. The North chose you as their _King_ because of who you are and because of your actions, both good and bad. Our decisions are _not_ your responsibility. Not one person in the world has the right to ever decide what another should do with their own free will. No one can control that, and you have _never_ tried.”

“Tormund…” Jon says helplessly, his words muffled by Tormund’s hand. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, what the swell in his chest means or the pain in his head. Is he listening? Is he agreeing? Is he swearing that Tormund is _lying_? He doesn’t know and it makes him feel exposed.

“Your trauma is not your fault,” Tormund says solemnly as he drops his hand from Jon’s mouth to grip his shoulder, “and you cannot change the past no matter how much you wish. You did what you could, and that will _always_ be enough.”

Jon stays silent as he blinks blankly up at Tormund. He’s heard him speak with conviction before, but not like this. Tormund genuinely and _honestly_ believes what he’s saying, and Jon’s heart breaks at the same time as it maybe heals just a _fraction_.

“I will never know what I’ve done to deserve you,” Jon admits quietly, and Tormund huffs as he reaches up to ruffle Jon’s hair before he tucks Jon back into him. It surprises him when he feels chapped lips press against his forehead, Tormund’s breath gentle when he pulls away, and Jon feels a small bit of warmth bloom in his chest at the touch. It’s not something to focus on though, not when it’s comfortable up here and Jon’s eyes are heavy from exhaustion. The rage has bubbled away to be replaced by a blanketed weariness.

“Enough, Jon,” Tormund says above him as Jon’s eyes start to close. “You’ve done enough.”

 

…

 

In the end, it’s decided that going too far North won’t be beneficial.

There’s a small council held in Craster’s Keep before they leave. Jon sits beside Tormund and doesn’t say a word, just lets the others argue until they’re blue in the face. The old woman was right when she said there might be a second split, and it’s mostly the rest of the Hornfoot’s that chose to continue on to their old home at the foot of the Frostfangs. 

It’s not far for them. It’ll take the same time for them to track back to their home as it took for them to get to Craster’s Keep, considering they’ll head in a direct line instead of following the Milkwater river as they had. Tormund doesn’t seem overly happy, but he doesn’t make mention of it.

Not that he ever would. He’s already said to Jon his opinions don’t matter when it comes to the freedom of the Free Folk.

After the Hornfoots have made their decision, Jon listens as Tormund slowly brings the group around to discussing where the rest shall settle. There is a few that mention the Valley of Thenn, but the remaining Thenn survivors solemnly admit that most of the valley was destroyed by the Ice River Clans when they trekked west to join Mance Rayder’s cause. It sparks a lot of resentment amongst the group, and it doesn’t take Jon long to realise that the low opinion of the cannibalistic tribe is shared amongst nearly everyone.

Tormund seems to have an idea though, and when he stands to speak the room falls silent. For a man who denies being their leader, he carries the weight and respect of one, and when he suggests they build a new home near the Antler River, it’s met with enthusiasm and excitement.

Tormund explains it to him as they’re saddling up their horses before leaving. It’s a strategic move. A new settlement at the Antler River will be the halfway point between Whitetree and the Hornfoots, and Hardhome will be only a short sail across the harbours of the Shivering Sea. It’s not too far North that Castle Black will forget they exist, but it’s far enough away that the Free Folk should be left alone to their own way of life.

“We need to start fresh,” Tormund tells Jon as the Free Folk begin their next leg of the journey. “Sometimes going home isn’t an option, not when there’s been so much lost that home just isn’t home anymore.”

Jon thinks of Winterfell and Castle Black, his homes as much as they can be. He’s shed blood in both places, for both places. Castle Black isn’t home without Sam, Edd, Grenn, or Pyp, and Winterfell isn’t home without his family, now scattered to the wind or dead.

He thinks he gets what Tormund means.

It’ll only take them a day and a half to reach the Antler River. Those making for the Hornfoot lands will travel with them before they continue their two-day journey further North. Jon hopes the land is still fruitful after the White Walker’s decimated this side of the Wall, but there’s more greenery each day and the younger Free Folk are _fascinated_ by the stubborn flowers pushing through the snow.

Jon finds a small gathering of daisies at the foot of an oak tree when they stop for a break on their first day. He doesn’t remember much since Sansa never really had time for him in their youth, but he manages to butcher out daisy chain crowns for some of the children that gather, and they giggle and laugh when Jon manages to catch Tormund and drop it over his head.

When the time comes for camping down, Jon volunteers to take a watch. It’s the first bit of responsibility he’s asked for, and Tormund peers at him with narrow and suspicious eyes as he obviously tries to figure out what’s sparked Jon into doing so, but he relents and gives Jon the early morning shift. 

Jon doesn’t tell him it’s because he’s terrified of breaking down the moment he’s alone with Tormund in their tent.

Ghost sits with him as they watch the sun rise in the east. The clearing they’re in is surrounding by thunderously tall trees, but the leafage is thin and the sun peeks through in small beams. Jon’s hand is holding Ghost’s fur tightly as he tries not to doze off, the shift longer since he’d escaped the tent before Tormund could get back from his own, and each time his eyes start to close he gets a wet nose snuffling in his ear.

It means it’s his turn to make the last half of the trip on the back of a horse, Tormund shoving him on despite his protests. He falls asleep in the saddle, dozing as Tormund has done over the last few days, only waking when his horse hits a bump or the noise around him gets too loud.

Each time though, he feels a weight on his thigh. It’s Tormund’s large hand, pressed warm through Jon’s trousers, holding him steady on his horse much the same as Jon had to him. He doesn’t leave Jon’s side the entire time, and when Jon wakes for a final time it’s to see Tormund looking up at him brightly.

“You slept through lunch,” he says, and he reaches into the bag hanging at his hip to pull out a wedge of bread. He passes it over, and Jon takes it with hungry fingers. It’s surprisingly fresh, and he picks away at it as he continues to sit on the horses back.

He rides beside Tormund in silence as he eats. Ghost is ahead of them, trotting along as he weaves amongst the people. On his back is a couple of tots, clinging to his fur and squawking away, tiny in comparison to the giant dire wolf. Jon nearly smiles at the sight.

It’s only when he notices that they’re relatively alone, as they walk on the side of the group, that the questions he’s been suppressing start to rise. Since Tormund’s speech to him the other night, his words have twisted and churned in Jon’s mind, bringing up questions he’s always wondered but never had the courage to ask.

He blames it on the fact he’s still tired and half-asleep that he finally asks them.

“You’ve never believed in kings,” Jon muses aloud, feeling nervous with each word. He knows that Tormund has strong views, sometimes harsh, and he’s not sure the reception he’ll get. He glances down to look at Tormund only to see him looking back up with raised eyebrows.

“No,” he agrees. “I haven’t.”

Jon nods as he looks back up in front of him. There’s Free Folk everywhere, all at different paces and speeds, all helping one another over twisted roots and uneven ground. He thinks that the Southerners could learn something from the Free Folk if they ever got over their prejudices. 

“Then why did you believe in me?”

He’s expecting the silence that comes. Tormund doesn’t say anything for a long while as he silently walks beside Jon and guides his horse through the forest, his hand warm on Jon’s thigh where it still sits. He doesn’t take it away, and Jon starts to hyper-focus on it as he waits and waits.

Eventually, he reaches down and settles his hand on top of Tormund’s, momentarily taken aback at how much smaller his hand is. It gets Tormund’s attention though as he glances up and gives Jon a crooked smile.

“King is just a title,” he starts to say. “And a title means nothing.” He shrugs his shoulders, pulling his hand just slightly out from under Jon’s. “Mance Rayder was a man with pretty words, pretty enough to gather all the clans together.” He huffs and shakes his head. “But pretty words don’t mean a thing when there’s a man in armour with a sword bearing down on you.” 

Jon frowns. “Wasn’t Mance your friend though?” he asks, feeling almost childish, especially when Tormund gives him a laughable look.

“Friendship doesn’t make you a good leader,” Tormund points out. “Following someone for friendship alone is what gets you killed.” He glances away as he manoeuvres them over a series of rocks. “Aye, he got us through the winters North of the Wall, but in the end, Mance was defeated by the South and his _pride_ killed many of us. I still mourn for the friend that I lost, and I’m thankful you gave him a quick death rather than what that red whore was going to do, but he was not the leader we needed to get us through the Long Night.”

Jon jumps when Tormund’s hand squeezes his leg, but he keeps his hand steady where it sits on top of Tormund’s. 

“ _You_ proved yourself long before your title was bestowed on you,” Tormund says. “You saved us from the crows and you saved us from the White Walkers. You gave your life for us, and when you came back you continued to fight for us.” He smiles at Jon and grips his leg again and gives him a slight shake. “I followed you before you became King, and when you became King you did not change. You weren’t stubborn enough to not bend the knee when you knew it would save us. You’re honest and loyal to a damn fault, Jon Snow, and you are the only King that I have ever truly believed in.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He stares at Tormund with wide eyes, feeling fragile and broken all at once, and he settles for holding Tormund’s hand as tightly as he can and tries not to think about how symbolic it feels as his lifeline.

It’s not long after that Jon dismounts and walks alongside his horse again, Ghost trotting beside him on the other side, without the tots this time. Tormund takes off back to the front of the group, and Jon knows it’s because they must be close to Antler’s River. 

Soon it’ll all be over. The travelling will stop and the building will begin. He can hear the excitement being whispered amongst the group, and the children who climb on top of his horse pelt him with questions that Jon struggles to answer. 

By early evening, the group is settled around multiple campfires, the river rushes just to their left, and the first foundations of the first building has been lain. 

Jon feels more comfortable where he’s squished between a man, one of the last from the Nightrunner clan, and a child who can barely speak as he babbles some story to Jon. Ghost sits in front of him, tolerating the three babes who giggle and squeak as they crawl over his body, and it surprises Jon that the ache in his chest is maybe, just _maybe_ , starting to dull.

After the food has been shared, drinks passed around, and a few songs have been sung to bless the site of their new home, Jon is expecting Tormund to appear behind him and lead him towards their tent. He welcomes Tormund’s company more than ever, and he blames the terrible soured goat's milk that the man he’d been sitting with, Hrorand, had nearly been funnelling down his throat, on the way he wobbles just slightly.

“You’re a pisslips, Snow,” Tormund scolds as he practically drops Jon on top of the furs. “Can’t hold your damn drink even if you tried.”

Jon manages to push himself up on his elbows and lolls his head to look up at Tormund, his eyes wandering over him lazily. “Never really had much of a chance to drink,” he says. “It’s not a good look if your leader is constantly on the piss.”

Tormund raises his eyebrows down at him. “And before that?” he asks. “Before the Nights Watch?”

Jon frowns as he looks away, trying to think. He remembers stealing wineskins from the kitchen with Robb and Theon. They’d snuck down to the crypts once and huddled by their grandfather’s statue, and they’d ended up toasting the dead Stark’s the drunker they’d gotten and sharing ghost stories between themselves. Arya had found them in the morning, warning them that their father was _not_ very happy, but Jon can’t remember much more other than having a pounding head and unsettled stomach.

“Maybe,” he ends up saying.

He glances back up to watch as Tormund undresses, knowing that his wandering eyes might get him into trouble but not caring in the slightest. His head feels light, lighter than it’s been in a long time, and he simply feels _good_ at the moment.

“You know,” he slurs a little, not resisting when Tormund kneels beside him and starts yanking at the sword on his belt and the cape around his neck, “I haven’t forgotten what you said to Gendry and myself.”

Tormund huffs and throws the sword and scabbard away before ripping Jon’s cloak out from underneath him, knocking out Jon’s elbows and sending him crashing back to the ground. “And what was that?” he asks haughtily as he folds the cloak away.

“How do you keep your balls from freezing off this side of the Wall,” Jon paraphrases, and Tormund’s eyes narrow as Jon feels a sly grin curling onto his lips. “You said, walkings good,” he reaches out to grip Tormund’s arm, “fightings better,” he rises back up on his elbows, “fuckings _best_.”

Tormund lets out a small yelp of surprise as Jon surges up and pushes him over, straddling Tormund’s lap before he has a chance to realise what’s going on. He reaches out for Tormund’s other arm as well and he leans forward, his face dangerously close to Tormund’s as he presses Tormund’s arms to the ground.

“We make do with what we have,” he finishes, and the smile is foreign on his face but he goes with it as he leans closer and closer until their noses are touching, liquid courage brimming through his veins. “And we are-”

He’s cut off though as Tormund moves, breaking Jon’s grip on his arms as he rolls them over, and Jon’s eyes widen as Tormund presses between his legs and pushes his back against the ground before he slams their lips together in a kiss.

It takes him a second to realise what’s happening before he’s reaching up to grip Tormund’s shoulders as he opens himself up to him. He always thought that Tormund would be rough, but he’s surprised as one of Tormund’s hands caress the side of his face and the other settles firmly on Jon’s waist. His lips are soft and warm, plush as they brush Jon’s own, his body solid and reassuring as he presses them chest to chest and hips to hip. It’s intoxicating and overwhelming, and Jon’s fingers are white-knuckled tight on Tormund’s shoulders.

It’s only when Jon opens his mouth, letting Tormund in to take that step further, that one of Tormund’s arms slide down under his back and _pushes_ Jon’s hips up just as Tormund brings his down in a strong thrust.

It makes Jon’s eyes open as he lets out a gasp into Tormund’s waiting mouth, but it’s not a _good_ gasp. Suddenly, all the heat is gone out of the moment as Jon feels his body start to shake, his head starts to _ache_ , and he can’t see Tormund anymore.

He sees Ygritte, Daenerys, the people he’s _loved_ who’ve died in his goddamn fucking _arms_ because of him, because of what he’s _done_ , and the raw panic screaming up his throat and exploding behind his eyes has him pushing his hands against Tormund’s chest.

A small part of him wonders if this was intentional as the second his hand touches Tormund’s chest, he pulls away. He doesn’t let go, but he puts space between their chest and hips and his hands come up to hold Jon’s head between gentle palms.

“Breathe, Jon,” Tormund murmurs, voice soft as he angles Jon’s head until he’s forced to look into Tormund’s blue eyes. “Breathe for me.”

He can’t. Jon finds he can’t, but it’s not just panic that's rearing its head. It’s agony, sheer _agony_ that courses from his heart to every inch and tip of his body, and it makes him tremble and shake as he can’t catch his breath, as his eyes sting _raw_ with tears that start to flow. Tears he’s not shed for as long as he can remember, and he wonders if he can drown in them as they pour down his cheeks.

“Jon, come on,” Tormund is saying above him, his thumbs working to wipe the tears away. “You can do this. Breathe.” His hand comes down to cover Jon’s two, still pressed against Tormund’s chest. “Feel my chest, and breathe with me.”

It gives him something to focus on, and Jon’s gaze drops and zeroes in _only_ on Tormund’s chest. He can feel the chest hair around his fingers, the warm skin against his palm on one hand and the leather of Tormund’s shirt on the other. He desperately focuses on that as much as he can as he tries to count each rise and fall of Tormund’s chest, tries to listen as Tormund gently coaches him into doing the same, tries to just goddamn _breathe_.

Finally, something breaks, something has the black receding from the corners of his eyes and the world doesn’t sound as muffled, Tormund’s voice isn’t so far away, and he glances up to meet Tormund’s eyes, warm and sad as they watch Jon.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says before Tormund can say a word. “I’m sorry, I don’t know-”

“You’re not ready,” Tormund interrupts him, his voice low and gentle. His thumb caresses Jon’s cheek again as he smiles a small broken smile. “You’re not going to be ready for a while to come, little crow.”

Jon can still feel the wetness on his cheeks, the tremble in his fingers, and he lets out a painful shuddering breathe. “I thought I was,” he admits. “I thought I’d let all the anger out at the Keep.”

Tormund shakes his head, and his hand drops from covering Jon’s two to press against Jon’s chest, right above his heart. “You have not let go of the sadness,” he says. He wipes away another few tears as they continue to drop down Jon’s cheeks. “The sadness that sits _here_.”

“But I’ve already…” he pauses, unsure if he’s telling the truth. “I’ve let go of Ygritte and-”

“Not sadness for them,” Tormund interrupts, a light scolding in his tone. “Sadness for yourself, Jon Snow. For what you’ve lost, from what you’ve been robbed of. You have not been given a fair opportunity at life. It’s okay to mourn that.”

Jon blinks up at him, his lashes wet and eyes tired. He can feel it sitting there, the gut-churning wave of agony, waiting for him to release it. Maybe he should. Maybe he should finally let himself _feel_ this pain he’s refused to touch for so long. 

Tormund starts to pull away but Jon reaches out and grips his arms. His hold is feeble, but it’s enough to catch Tormund’s attention as he turns back to Jon.

“Please stay,” Jon says, the words foreign on his tongue. He pleaded only a few times throughout his life, knowing it’s _weak_ , but Tormund doesn’t seem to mind as he grips Jon’s shoulders and rolls them over until they’re on their sides.

“Of course, little crow,” Tormund murmurs to him, his arms wrapping tight around Jon, and Jon pushes his face against Tormund’s collarbone and grips onto his fur-shirt as tightly as he can.

He lets the tears drop, and for the first time in a long time, he lets himself _hurt_.

 

…

 

Eventually, what was just the foundations of the first hall turns into the foundations of the second, the third, even the fourth hall. 

There are other buildings that crop up around the main ones, a smithy, a cookhouse, a stable for the horses, even a fishery. Jon barely sees the tents that he’d come across when he’d first met the Free Folk. They’re here to settle down and stay, the time for easily moved tents gone. Jon isn’t a builders backside, never having had the patience or education for it, but he helps where he can and it doesn’t take long for a few Free Folk to take him under their wings to start learning at _least_ the basics.

Tormund empties newly smithed nails from his pockets each night in their tent, one of the only ones still up, and raises his eyebrows for each one as Jon rolls his eyes.

Nothing much changes between them. They don’t fight, they don’t fuck, they don’t do anything more than sleep together. Jon tries to give Tormund space, but more often than not it doesn’t matter as Tormund pulls him across the gap between them and curls up behind Jon, arms around his waist and mouth hot against Jon’s shoulders.

It’s not that he doesn’t like it, in fact, he finds himself looking forward to sleeping with Tormund more than he doesn’t, but Jon can’t help but feel like he’s holding Tormund back. The man could go and find someone new, start a new life here beyond the wall, start _fresh_. But he’s busy looking after Jon who just _can’t_ seem to fend for himself anymore.

“You’re not useless,” Tormund scolds him one night when Jon begrudgingly admits some of his feelings. “You’re just healing, and that’s okay.”

After a few weeks though, Tormund packs his bags and heads further North. It’s to check in on the Hornfoots to ensure they’re safe and stable, and Tormund asks Jon to stay and continue to help with the building of their village. Jon aches to go with him, but he agrees and watches Tormund leave with Hrorand with a lump in his throat.

Their tent feels too big and too empty with Tormund gone, even with Ghost sprawling and taking up as much room as he can. Jon takes sentry watches as much as he can during that time, ignoring the concern on some of the Free Folk’s faces. The group has still only got the watches more out of habit than from any threat, but it gives Jon something to focus on besides the heavy heart sitting in his chest.

Yrma gives him knowing looks every time she sees him. She makes comments that Tormund will return soon no doubt, and Jon ducks his head and is thankful for his long hair that covers his red and burning ears.

She’s right though. Just over a week goes by before Tormund rides back into the centre of the growing village. Jon’s conveniently nearby, and he very nearly breaks out into a smile as he strides towards Tormund and crashes into him for a tight embrace.

“Whoa, little crow,” Tormund says, obviously taken by surprise but it doesn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around Jon in return. “Don’t say you missed me.”

“Like a wailing widow,” Yrma says from behind him, and there’s a roar of laughter from the gathered Free Folk. Jon hides his red face in Tormund’s chest for a moment, but when he pulls back it’s to see Tormund smiling fondly down at him.

“Good,” is all he says, and he presses a kiss to Jon’s forehead before he steps back to greet everyone else. His hand stays on Jon’s waist though, and Jon _refuses_ to gush as Hrorand wiggles his eyebrows suggestively from on top of his horse.

He’s not to stay though, Tormund tells him that night when they’re wrapped around each other once more and Jon feels _relaxed_. Hardhome still needs to be contacted so they know where the others have settled, as well as Whitetree, and Tormund had also promised the Nights Watch they would let them know where they all are. Apparently, even Sansa had made mention about knowing their location in the time that Jon was travelling back North after the Southern affairs were over, although a trip to Winterfell isn’t exactly mentioned.

Jon refuses to stay behind this time. There’s at least a handful of boats already made by the craftsmen in the village, enough to carry both Jon and Tormund as well as Ghost. Tormund raises his eyebrows at the latter but Jon refuses to budge.

He’s been separated from Ghost enough times by now. Not again.

Tormund relents though. The trip to Hardhome is taken with a single sailboat with Jon, Tormund, Ghost, and  Hrorand in, and it only takes a few days to travel to Hardhome, sailing much quicker than walking. They’re greeted at the docks by the new leader of Hardhome, Goralder, a Hornfoot that’d chosen Hardhome over is homeland.

Jon gets it. From what Tormund has said, the Hornfoot’s were devastated upon arriving home and seeing the decimation that the White Walker’s had brought with them. Goralder and his group might have made the smart decision by choosing to start fresh.

He expects to be left on his own as Tormund goes off to talk with Goralder, but he’s pleasantly surprised as Tormund leaves Hrorand to do the talking. Instead, he ushers Jon into the village with an arm around his waist and greets familiar faces with a booming laugh and giant smile. People flock to them, all of them _happy_ for once, brimming with news and excitement. Jon is interested to see the joy amongst so many of them, but he guesses that comes with being safe, from the lack of feeling like they’re being _hunted_ in their own homes.

They get a tour of the village from a bunch of excited children, half of them there for Ghost rather than anything else. All of them remember Tormund well though, and Jon trails behind as Tormund entertains the gaggle with tall tales. It’s completely entertaining, and Jon almost smiles as Tormund’s eyes shine brighter than any child’s and his delight is nearly tangible.

He spots the woman from his first night with the Free Folk in Whitetree. Her three children are around her, the youngest now walking as he waddles along between his two sisters as they giggle and laugh with their mother. They look happy, _content_ , and the exhaustion is stripped from the mother’s face. She catches Jon’s eye, and her smile is blinding.

Maybe it wasn’t all bad, Jon thinks. Maybe the sacrifices he made, _they_ made, were worth it all in the end.

It’s not long though before Hrorand collects them and settles them on a proper ship destined for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. The Free Folk here have been busy since they’d arrived. There’s two large ships that they’ve built for fishing expeditions, the stylisation and craftwork incredibly similar to that found on the Iron Islands. Jon isn’t surprised at all, and he’s actually rather pleased that the Free Folk have mixed well enough with those South of the Wall to gather ideas for their new way of life. 

Hrorand isn’t coming with them. He’s walking to Whitetree himself before he heads back to Antler River, and he stands on the docks with a hand raised as Jon and Tormund stand on the stern until they’re far enough away that Hrorand looks like a spec on the horizon.

The sailor’s don’t need help from either Jon or Tormund, although Tormund seems determined to talk their ears off as he asks about the designs of the ship. Jon leaves them to it, knowing that Tormund will be haggling their own builders when they return to Antler River to give them the designs. He doesn’t understand much of the talk himself, so he settles for leaning against the wood at the prow of the ship as Ghost chews on a hefty deer bone beside him.

“Do you think it was worth it, Ghost?” he muses aloud as he glances back to see Ghost look up and quirk his head at Jon. “Everything that’s happened. Was it worth it?”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, and he huffs out a breath in the frigid air, watching it curl up into the sky. It’s the question he’s been thinking for a long time, wondering each day if maybe, just _maybe_ , it was worth it?

The betrayals, the lies, the secrets, the threats, the wars, the deaths, _his_ death and his resurrection. There’s enough to list that Jon feels dizzy halfway through thinking about it.

He turns to look out over the sea in front of him. The stars are out and reflecting off the water, the moon hangs low, and Jon gasps when he feels a pair of arms slide around him from behind. He knows it’s Tormund, the man’s presence so damn familiar by now, and he lowers his hands to cover Tormund’s big ones as Tormund drops his chin on top of Jon’s head.

“Brooding again, hmm?” Tormund asks as he presses his chest against Jon’s back, a warm comfort against the cold air. “Careful, you might hurt yourself.”

Jon scoffs and pinches the back of Tormund’s hand. “I’m not brooding,” he lies, and Tormund’s laugh is soft.

“And just what are you brooding about this time?” 

Jon’s hesitant to answer. He knows that Tormund would get it, would probably mull over the question himself, but Jon still can’t get rid of that horrible feeling that he’s holding Tormund back. He must be sick of Jon by now, tired of dealing with his problems, but Jon breathes through the doubts and holds tight to Tormund’s hands.

“Was it worth it?” he repeats himself, his voice quiet to his own ears. “Was everything that we’ve done worth it?”

Tormund doesn’t respond straight away. After a moment, he pulls back from Jon and moves forward to stand beside him. Jon doesn’t push him as he waits, reaching out to wrap his hands around the wooden edges of the ship and gripping them hard enough that his knuckles turn white. His own brain is a mess of thoughts, and he hopes that maybe Tormund’s answer will help him order them.

“I don’t know,” Tormund eventually says though. He glances back at Jon and shakes his head. “I don’t know if it was worth it, Jon. I guess that all depends on who you ask.” He turns around to lean his hip against the wooden prow, turning back to face Jon. “Was it worth it to Hrorand, who lost his entire clan? There’s only two Nightrunner’s left, and the other is a distant cousin of his. Was it worth it for him to lose everyone he loves dear?”

“No,” Jon says immediately, the pressure he’s putting on his fingers nearly breaking them as they crunch against the wood. It wasn’t worth it if Hrorand lost everyone he ever loved.

“But what about Yrma?” Tormund asks. “She lost her husband and their four boys to the Nights Watch when Mance Rayder lead an attack, but her son, her sister and her sister’s children are alive because the Nights Watch let them through the Wall into the Gift. Was it worth it to her?”

Jon doesn’t answer this time. He has to look away from Tormund and release the wood beneath his hands. Instead, he crosses his arms and stares out over the water as Tormund continues to talk.

“Then there’s Goralder, who didn’t have anyone _to_ lose. He fought for Winterfell for you and for Westeros for the living. He’s now the leader of Hardhome and has a new family. Was it worth all the bloodshed for him to have that chance?”

“I don’t know,” Jon mutters darkly. He jumps when he feels Tormund’s hands on his arms, pulling them undone as he holds Jon’s wrists in his hands.

“And me,” Tormund says, catching Jon’s eyes and holding them with his own. “I lost everyone and everything I ever had, and yet I’ve found you and a new home at Antler River. I’m _happy_. Was it worth it for me?”

“Was it?” Jon asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Tormund reaches up with a hand and cups Jon’s cheek, his thumb tracing over the ridge of Jon’s cheekbone.

“I think so,” Tormund tells him. He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But what I think at the moment doesn’t matter. It’s you, Jon. _You_ need to decide if it was all worth it. If the pain and anger and loss was all worth it.”

Jon watches him for a long moment, his eyes searching Tormund’s as Tormund does the same before Tormund leans in and presses a kiss to Jon’s forehead. He lets go of Jon wordlessly and walks away, leaving Jon to stand and think and try to find words to match how he feels..

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He takes one look at Ghost, still happily chewing on his bone, before he turns to make his way through the ship towards the cabin he and Tormund will be sharing. It’s empty when he gets there, so he’s not too sure where Tormund has gone, but Jon doesn’t think he minds.

It gives him more time to think of an answer for the unspoken question Tormund hasn’t asked as he mindlessly takes off his travelling clothes and crawls into the bed that’s been made for them. Tormund’s coat is half hanging off the end of the bed, and Jon reaches down to pull it towards him as he buries his face into the ragged fur.

Were the horrible things he’s done worth it in the end? Were all the things that were his _fault_ worth it?

But then that’s the question, isn’t it? Were they his fault? He thinks about what he blames himself for, the list that’s ever growing whenever he thinks about it. The murders, the betrayals, the deaths. Everything.

Could he have stopped it? He thinks of Catelyn Stark’s hateful gaze, constant and burning whenever he saw her. He was born a bastard, treated like a bastard, never _escaped_ being a bastard, and he hated himself each moment he was at Winterfell, cursing the day he was born for being the evidence of Eddard Stark’s greatest betrayal. But what if that wasn’t true? What if maybe, just maybe, his birth wasn’t his own fault?

He remembers the fondness that Jeor Mormont treated him with and the envious looks from the other Nights Watchmen. He’d felt guilty, had tried to hide Longclaw from everyone to avoid the anger. Righteous anger in his eyes. He betrayed them in the end for the Free Folk, and then he’d turned around and betrayed the Free Folk for the Nights Watch. Maybe if he hadn’t, maybe if he’d refused the assignment then the Free Folk wouldn’t have attacked. Maybe Ygritte would still be alive. Maybe Jon wouldn’t have felt torn between two worlds and sacrificed his life _literally_ to save the Free Folk?

But then he thinks of Yrma and the mother with her three children, and he thinks that he would _gladly_ take a hundred knives all over again just to give them a damn chance to live.

So, maybe it’s not his fault, he realises. It’s not his fault that he was born a bastard, that Catelyn Stark hated him, that he was never going to be accepted into Winterfell’s halls. It’s not his fault that Jeor Mormont made him his steward, that he gave him Longclaw, that he was sent to infiltrate the Free Folk. It’s not his fault that they attacked Castle Black, that he was named Lord Commander, that he was betrayed and _murdered_ by his men. It’s not his fault that he came back to life, that he couldn’t save Sansa from the Bolton’s, that Winterfell was taken from them and they had to _fight_ to get it back. It’s not his fault that the Night King tried to destroy them all, that he was born a Targaryen, that he had a claim to a throne he didn’t want. It’s not his fault that Kings Landing was sacked, that Daenerys went mad, that Jon had to make the hardest decision of his entire life.

It’s not his fault that there’s so many dead. His parents, _all_ of his parents, Robb, Pyp, Gren, Jeor, Ygritte, Rickon, Benjen, Edd, Lyanna, Theon, Varys, _Daenerys_. None of them was his _fault_.

“My trauma is not my fault,” Jon murmurs to himself aloud, his voice slightly muffled where it’s pressed into Tormund’s coat. “I did what I could, and that will _always_ be enough.”

The sudden weight lifting in his chest surprises him, and his hands tighten where they’re wrapped in Tormund’s coat as he can suddenly _breathe_. It’s not a fix, he can still feel the tendrils of guilt twisted around his heart, but there’s a lightness creeping in.

He did what he could, he reminds himself. He did what he _could_ , and that will _always_ be enough.

“So, was it worth it?”

He jumps, pulling his face away from the coat to see Tormund standing at the end of the bed with a small smile on his face. Jon raises his eyebrows at him as Tormund drops to his hands and knees and crawls across the bed until he’s lying beside Jon. He reaches out to pull the coat from Jon’s grip, tossing it to the side before he brushes the hair off of Jon’s face.

“Was it worth it, Jon?” he asks, eyes hopeful.

Jon meets Tormund’s eyes as he smiles, his cheeks sore at the unusual pull. He can’t remember the last time he smiled, but it’s must’ve been a long time if it’s enough to make Tormund’s own smile turn ridiculously huge.

“Yes,” he says as he leans in to push their foreheads together. “Yes, it was.”

 

…

 

Winterfell is a lot different when Jon returns.

He notices it the moment that he, Tormund, and Ghost leave the Gift and begin on the dirt paths southward. There’s fresh clover spilling onto the paths every step of the way, the hills covered in rich green grass as they roll in the distance, and the trees growing leaves and flowers equally as they rise proudly i the air. The roadside is once again being toiled by farmers with horses and ploughs, small children frolicking in the fields once more, and there’s some that Jon even recognises as he raises his hand in greeting as they trot past.

Ghost takes off. Jon isn’t exactly shocked when he watches Ghost disappear over the hillside and he doesn’t return that night. Arya had mentioned Nymeria was maybe nearby and leading a pack of her own, and he thinks that maybe Ghost might be off to find his sister, just as Jon is doing the same. He’ll find them when he’s ready, Jon is sure of it.

Meanwhile, Tormund is thrilled at the new growth. He reminisces about the last time he saw so much greenery, back at Ruddy Hall when he was a boy, and the trip to Winterfell takes that little bit longer as Tormund dismounts and disappears into the forest time and again. He comes back out with fistfuls of grass, covered in dirt, and twigs sticking out of his hair at all angles, and Jon laughs where he stands waiting by the horses, and he runs to avoid Tormund stuffing the handfuls of greenery down his shirts.

It’s like the fresh spring is contagious with its fresh joy, and when Jon trots into the main courtyard of Winterfell it’s with a grin on his face. Sansa is waiting, not up in the corridors but down in the dusty dirt, and Jon dismounts in time for her to stride across the distance and crash into him with enough force to almost send them to the ground.

He doesn’t hesitate a moment as he wraps his arms around her and clings tight. “What happened to Queen’s being reserved?” he can’t help but ask though, noticing as the people in the courtyard look their way but none look surprised.

She laughs as she swats at his head. “Shut up, Jon,” she scolds, and when she pulls away from him it’s with a smile from ear to ear. She looks good. Her hair is slightly rumpled and her crown is skewed on her head from the hug, but she stands tall and confident, graceful and _happy_.

Being Queen suits her, Jon thinks, and it’s with that thought that he gives her a small bow. Better to at least try and stick to protocol than disregard it altogether.

Not that it matters as Tormund appears at his side, and he gives Sansa a nod as he reaches out and rights Jon from his bow, his hand staying on Jon’s elbow. “Free Folk don’t kneel,” he rebukes Jon, loudly enough that almost the whole courtyard can hear. Jon’s eyes go wide, but Sansa laughs across from them.

“He’s right,” she says, and Jon looks up to see she’s still smiling. “You never need to kneel ever again.” She turns her gaze to Tormund and inclines her head just slightly. “Tormund Giantsbane, always a pleasure.”

Tormund smiles back as he opens his arms. “Lady Wolf,” he greets, and Jon nearly reaches out to smack him. He’d only told Tormund to refer to her as Queen Sansa a _million bloody times_. “Or is it the Wolf Queen now?”

To her credit, Sansa barely blinks. “To a freeman like you,” she says, authority in her voice but kindness behind her eyes, “it’s only Sansa.” She gestures behind her to where a small gathering of people are standing. “The Free Folk that stayed here are waiting to see you. It’s all they’ve been speaking about for the last week.” She smiles. “There are two young girls that are particularly excited.”

Tormund eyes up the group and Jon sees his smile grow bigger as Karsi’s two daughters, Johnna and Willa, step forward and wave at them. Jon waves back as Tormund sucks in a breath, obviously surprised at how much time has passed and how big the girls are now. His hand on Jon’s elbow grows tighter, and Jon reaches up to grip his shoulder in return.

“Go on then,” he says, giving Tormund a slight push. Tormund glances down at him, and Jon smiles back. “They’re waiting, Tormund. I’ll be fine with Sansa.”

That’s all it takes to convince him, and Tormund nods as he lets Jon go, only to drop a kiss on the top of his head before he trots off towards the waiting group. The calls and cries are loud as Tormund whoops at them, but it’s not enough to drown out the sudden sinking of Jon’s stomach as he looks up to see Sansa grinning at him with the _smuggest_  look he’s ever seen.

“So-” she starts to say, and Jon holds up a hand.

“Don’t even think about it,” he snaps, and she laughs before she reaches forward to slip her hand through his elbow. With a tug, she pulls him away from the horses, that are being led off towards the stables, and up the steps into the corridors of Winterfell’s castle.

It’s impressive to see how fast the repairs have been made to the broken home. They walk through the stone corridors, most of it looking no different to how it did when Jon was a child. The burning at the hand of the Bolton’s and the destruction caused by the army of undead has been nearly wiped away with fresh masonry and woodwork, the workers having taken special care to restore the castle to the magnificence it once was.

But it’s almost too new, Jon thinks as Sansa guides him into the Great Hall. The fireplace stands tall behind her throne, but as Jon draws closer he can see that it’s been restored as well and he reaches up to run a hand over the fresh grain of the wood. Gone are the childish carvings of direwolves and krakens that he, Robb, and Theon had once made into the old wood with stolen arrowheads on the side of the fireplace. Catelyn had scolded them and asked for the wood to be replaced, but their father had simply laughed.

“It’s not gone,” Sansa says, and Jon glances back to see her watching him with warm eyes. “Mother always hated those carvings, but I couldn’t get rid of them. They’re in your room now, part of the new headboard for the bed.”

Jon frowns. “My room?” he asks as he drops his hand and moves to admire her throne. The two direwolf heads are beautifully crafted, and he traces the carvings with a finger. A plain wooden throne, he thinks. Sansa truly is the people’s Queen.

“I’ve kept mother and father’s room set for you,” she tells him, moving up to stand by him. He glances her way, but she’s not looking at him now. “I didn’t know if you would ever come home, but I had hope.”

He grimaces. “I’m not here to stay, Sansa,” he awkwardly admits, and she sighs. When she looks at him though, there’s a small smile on her face.

“No,” she says. “I don’t suppose you are.”

She’s hinting at something there, but Jon ignores her as he moves further about the room. It’s still lined with tables, benches ready for the heads of the houses, but he notices that the windows that line the hall are all different now. They’re stained-glass now, each showing something different, and he pauses when he gets to the window that shows the Night King and his army. They’re each representative of Winterfell. The Battle of the Bastard’s, the Long Night, surprisingly a window of the six Stark direwolves, and as he moves along he sees another window filled with people, filled with familiar faces in it.

Theon Greyjoy, Jorah Mormont, Lyanna Mormont, Beric Dondarrion, and his heart skips when he sees Edd, dear Edd, captured in the black-stain glass beside them all. Those that were lost, those that gave their lives in the Great War, those that sacrificed _everything_ to save the living.

“The North remembers,” Sansa murmurs behind him, and Jon smiles.

She takes him out of the hall and through the rest of the keep. He’s filled with nostalgia as she points out the repairs, some still taking place, and tells stories of the people. They’re happy, she says, they’re happy to be alive and happy to be independent. There’s no southerners telling them what to do, no threat of war looming over their heads. They’re safe in the North, in their _home_.

She tells him of Bran, ruling the six kingdoms. He seems to be doing a fair enough job, but Jon laughs when Sansa admits that Tyrion seems to be doing the brunt of the work, and what he doesn’t manage to do, Brienne of Tarth certainly does. She seems wistful when she speaks of the Lady Commander, but that makes sense. Jon owes a lot to Brienne for her protection of his sisters.

There’s not much to say about Arya. Sansa says they get a raven every now and again, but they’re often from Gendry. Jon raises his eyebrows at that but laughs with Sansa when he finds out that Gendry lasted less than five minutes in the Stormlands before he took off after their sister. It’s reassuring to know that at least Arya has someone to watch her back, even though he knows that she can handle herself. She’ll never stop being his kid-sister, no matter how many knives she throws and arrows she shoots.

They visit the crypts together. There are wreaths of flowers and weirwood leaves on each statue, beautifully arranged. They linger in front of Lyanna Stark’s statue for a long moment, and Sansa’s hand is warm where it wraps around Jon’s wrist. He looks at her face, beautiful and serene, and he wonders briefly what she would’ve been like as a mother.

In another life, maybe.

Come the evening, Jon would’ve thought they’d have run out of things to say, but he finds that they’re only just beginning. He tells her of the Free Folk as they get ready for the banquet that Winterfell is holding, laughs with her over Yrma’s delightful bluntness and Hrorand’s unsubtle innuendos. She smiles when he mentions the village at Antler River, raises her eyebrows when he explains his new-found building prowess, and laughs when he does grudgingly admit that maybe there might be something between him and Tormund.

“Oh, Jon,” she says as she pats his cheek teasingly and rolls her eyes. “You’d have to be blind not to see it.”

He sees Tormund again at the banquet. He’s at the side of the Great Hall, that blasted horn of sour goats milk in hand as he loudly tells a story to a group of Free Folk. Knowing him, it’s probably to do with the Long Night as he constantly gestures to the window he’s under, the one with the Night King and his army on it, and it’s undoubtedly being exaggerated into a total lie. He catches Jon’s eye and grins at him, eyes _completely_ drunk, and Jon shakes his head fondly and smiles back.

He’s getting used to the feeling now.

Wolkan, Winterfell’s Master, greets Jon when Sansa guides him to the table at the front of the hall, although she pauses to say a few words to different people along the way. Jon watches the way the lords and ladies all follow Sansa, all waiting for her lead. There are respect and admiration in all of their gazes, and Jon thinks that his sister is the Queen the North definitely deserves. After all, they’ve been through, they need a leader that rules with love and kindness instead of fear.

She’s different now. She’s still tougher than anyone he knows, and he has no doubt that she rules with an iron fist at times, but she shows emotion where Jon has never seen it done before. She laughs with her people, shows kindness with open affection, and they seem to love her all the more for it. It makes sense why she was so willing to embrace him in full view in the courtyard. Sansa doesn’t hold back, _engages_ with her people, and Jon respects her all the more for it.

Once they’re at the front, Sansa begins a short speech. Jon hears his name every now and again, hears the cheers from the rest of the room, but he doesn’t really listen as he looks across the hall and meets Tormund’s eyes. He doesn’t look away either, but when the final cheer comes, Tormund raises his horn and dips his head at Jon before breaking their gaze.

“Does _he_ know you’re not staying?” Sansa asks when they sit down, and he looks at her in alarm.

“Of course,” he says, but he’s actually not that sure all of a sudden. He knows he won’t be staying. Winterfell is the home he remembers from his youth, maybe even home more recently before the disaster down South, but it’s only that. It’s not where he belongs now, it’s not his place in the world.

That’s up at Antler River.

When Tormund does join him, he’s loud and boastful as he praises Sansa for her treatment of the Free Folk that had stayed behind. He’s completely drunk off his ass, and Sansa laughs as Jon pushes Tormund into the chair beside him and gets wine all over him in the process from that blasted horn.

He confiscates it, and Tormund whinges as Jon stores it beside the fireplace, and he flames a furious red on his cheeks as Tormund plasters himself to Jon’s side in the process. He glances around guiltily at the hall, but no one seems to pay them any mind. Sansa’s accusing raised eyebrows make him, oddly enough, relaxed, and he leans back into Tormund’s embrace. He forgets that the North is more open about these kinds of things than the South. If he made mention of his worries, Sansa would undoubtedly scold him for thinking the Northerners are anything like the Southerners.

After a few mugs of wine, sweet Northern wine rather than the bitter crap they get North of the Wall, Jon feels himself _actually_ enjoying the moment. He laughs loudly, rolls his eyes fondly as Tormund shouts out more and more bizarre stories by the minute, and his cheeks start to hurt from smiling too _much_ this time.

The drinks really begin to flow as the music starts, and Tormund is up and out of Jon’s grip before he can catch him again. It doesn’t matter as he tears across the hall to dance with the Free Folk, knocking over Northerners that can’t keep up as they go. Jon watches with a soft look, and Sansa elbows him hard in the side.

“Quit it,” she says with a smile. “You’re going to make me sick.”

Jon snorts and shoves at her, making her laugh. It’s good to hear it so much, he thinks. When he’d left her, she wasn’t the girl he grew up with. But she is now, she’s freer, and Jon can’t help but think once again that this was all worth it just to hear Sansa laugh again.

A song comes on that they remember. Their father’s favourite, and he takes Sansa’s hand and whirls her out onto the stone floor in front of the head table. The cheers are uproarious as they dance, following the steps that their father painstakingly taught each of them. Sansa reminds him of Catelyn Stark as she twirls, and for once he doesn’t feel _resentment_ as he thinks of the woman who raised him.

But then Sansa lets him go, and Jon falls back only to feel solid arms wrap around him, and the music changes as he stays in Tormund’s embrace. He doesn’t care that the Northerners can see him as he turns around to face Tormund, and he blames the giddiness of the moment for his spike in confidence as he reaches up to press a kiss to Tormund’s lips.

It’s soft and gentle, and when he pulls back its too see Tormund looking down at him like Jon himself has hung the very moon.

“Come on,” he murmurs, dropping his hands to grip Tormund’s wrists. He tugs on them gently, but he doesn’t really need to as Tormund nods and starts to follow him out of the Great Hall. He catches sight of Sansa before the doors close behind them, and she nods as she smiles.

The corridors are full of rushing people, but Jon pays them no mind as he traces the steps back to his room, the room that has been kept for them. Tormund doesn’t say a word as he follows along, his hand twisted to hold Jon’s wrist as Jon grips his. It doesn’t take long to reach the room, but it feels long enough as Jon opens the door and pulls Tormund in.

“Whoa, little crow,” Tormund says as Jon pushes him towards the bed. He goes willingly, but he merely sits on the edge and pulls Jon forward to stand between his legs. “Why the rush?”

Jon leans down and presses another kiss to Tormund’s lips, lingering this time as he breathes Tormund in. Large hands settle on his lower back, warming Jon to his core, and his fingers trail up to bury themselves in wild red hair.

“I’m happy,” Jon gasps when he pulls away, keeping their foreheads pressed together. “I’m finally happy, Tormund.”

Tormund blinks at him before he smiles. “And why are you happy, Jon?” he asks.

Jon searches Tormund’s eyes for a moment, admiring the beautiful blue. He’s never really done that, never just _looked_ at Tormund and admired how handsome the man is. How he wishes he’d done it earlier, but it doesn’t matter as Jon smiles at him before he closes his eyes.

“Because I’m here,” he starts to say, voice confident, “Because I’m alive, and you’re alive, and you’re here _with_ me. Because all of this was worth it just to have my family safe and happy, to have _you_ safe and happy.” He opens his eyes to see the softness in Tormund’s. “Because wherever you are, I have a home.”

“Of course you do,” Tormund abruptly says, his hands gripping the back of Jon’s shirt tightly. “You will _always_ have a home with me.”

Jon smiles, gentle and small. “I’m happy,” he murmurs this time, voice barely louder than a whisper, “because I know I did everything I ever could.” He runs a hand down Tormund’s scarred cheek. “I’m happy because…” he pauses for just a second, just thinking the words and _feeling_ them to his bones. He takes in a deep breath, holds it, lets it go. "Because I’m finally free.”

Tormund’s answering smile is huge, taking over his entire face, and Jon barely has time to smile back before Tormund drags him into a desperate kiss, toe-curling in passion, and Jon grips Tormund back as he feels himself being tugged off the ground and pulled onto the bed.

“Always,” Tormund says between kisses, “you’re _always_ free.”

Yes, Jon thinks, yes, he is.

 

 

…

 

 


End file.
